


Go Down Together

by dinolaur



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, bonnie and clyde au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinolaur/pseuds/dinolaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We rob banks."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so. There was a scene from the 1967 movie that just screamed of Enjolras and Grantaire to me, so I had to start writing this. Title taken from the book by Jeff Guinn. Also, keeping the setting in Texas and surrounding states because I know the geography very well, and I’ll tell you what, it is really hard to not have them say things like “I’ll tell you what" and “ain’t" and all the other glorious turns of phrase we have down here. But it’s also really funny to imagine them talking like that.

“What’re you doing with that car,” a voice asks suddenly.

Enjolras does not startle. He’s surprised, but he doesn’t show it, instead turning calmly to face the direction from which the voice came. The only person there is a man, probably about his own age. He leans back in a rickety old chair, the front legs up in the air and the back settled against the wall of the drugstore behind him to keep the balance. He is not well dressed, per say, but he is also not wearing rags. There is a bottle of some dark liquid—wine, if Enjolras had to guess; he isn’t much of a connoisseur—held in a slack grip and rested on a knee.

The man himself is physically forgettable. He is not ugly but not exceedingly attractive either. He has olive skin, dark curls, and surprisingly blue eyes. Enjolras will give the man that much; he has breathtaking eyes, even under the slight glaze of alcohol. His jaw is darkened with a bit of stubble, as if he couldn’t be bothered to shave that morning. His fingers are coated with something dark that Enjolras thinks might be charcoal. His thick brows are arched, waiting for an answer.

“It’s mine,” Enjolras lies seamlessly, and the man chortles.

“No, it’s not,” he says, pointing at Enjolras with his bottle. “I know that car, and I know its owner, and its owner is not you. So I’ll ask again, what are you doing with that car?”

Enjolras frowns, but the man is grinning crookedly and not running to call for law enforcement, so he figures he’ll probably walk away from this without too much trouble even if he blatantly confesses. “I was looking to see if the keys were inside.”

The man’s grin only stretches. “What for?”

“Easier than hot wiring,” Enjolras says.

The man drops the front legs of his chair down with a  _thud_. “And what are you looking to hot wire a car for,” he asks, standing and strolling over. Enjolras can’t help but be a bit surprised by the grace with which the man moves. The lazy picture the man had painted sprawled in that old chair with his bottle of wine, Enjolras wouldn’t have been surprised to see him stumbling around on his feet. But he breezes up, catlike and almost as if dancing. A small twirl, and he drops to lean against the side of the car, hip cocked out. “A guy like you, clothes as nice as yours are, even if you don’t really seem to know how to button them right.” He reaches out with his free hand and tugs at the stiff collar of Enjolras’s shirt. Enjolras looks down. Indeed the first couple of buttons on his shirt are undone, his tie hanging loose.

“Don’t particularly care to take the trains,” Enjolras answers, and the man throws back his head and laughs.

“I’m Grantaire,” he says, holding up the hand that had previously fiddled with Enjolras’s clothes.

Enjolras opens his mouth, his tongue starting to sound out his own name, but he stops suddenly. He doesn’t usually give out his real name in these tiny towns. Sure, he is a stranger here, and strangers are always remembered in places like this, but there is still no reason to make a trail any easier to follow.

The pause is a little too long, and Grantaire looks confused but undeterred. “A man of mystery, I see,” he says. “Well, then, how about I just call you Apollo for now?”

“Apollo,” Enjolras questions, pushing off from the car and starting to walk down the dusty street. Grantaire follows.

“You look like a classy enough fellow,” Grantaire observes. “Wearing those Sunday bests on a Wednesday. I figure you probably got yourself a decent education.”

“I did,” Enjolras says. He has gone all the way through college, something that people from towns like this never even bother dreaming about.

“So then you’ve probably heard a thing or two about Apollo,” Grantaire says.

“I am familiar with Greco-Roman mythology, yes,” Enjolras answers. “I still fail to see why you’re referring to me as the god of light and music.”

“You’ve looked in a mirror at some point in your life, haven’t you,” Grantaire asks, taking a chug from his bottle. When Enjolras just arches a brow at him, he clarifies, “You are extremely handsome, my friend.”

Enjolras is well aware of that and has used people’s reactions to his appearance to his advantage countless times before, but for some reason, this time it makes something in his stomach flutter.

“So, educated, classy fellow who doesn’t like to ride trains,” Grantaire starts. “What’re you doing in a dump like this?”

“Just passing through,” Enjolras says. “Say, any place worth trying to get something to eat around here?”

Grantaire grins and leads him to a diner. The place isn’t seeing much business, but then again, a town this size during times like these, there really isn’t much business to be had. Their food comes out promptly. Grantaire had ordered for them both, telling Enjolras to trust his judgment. It’s his usual, which apparently is the greasiest burger Enjolras has ever had in his life, but it’s not bad. There are fries on the plate too, although Grantaire probably has twice as many as Enjolras. That might have had something to do with the elderly waitress ruffling his hair as she walked off.

They continue to talk, and Enjolras continues to be intrigued by Grantaire. Grantaire says nothing particular of his life that would indicate that he wasn’t born and raised in this town, but he is articulate and intelligent, even under the influence of his drink. There is potential there, and all this town would do is keep him on the fast track to ruin.

Why he cares, Enjolras hasn’t quite worked out yet.

They get into Enjolras’s past. He doesn’t give away any details, but Grantaire is a pretty good guesser. “As if the whole educated man wasn’t a big enough clue,” Grantaire says when Enjolras asks why Grantaire thinks he came from money. “You carry yourself too high to have been around slums like this for too long.”

“Highland Park, up in Dallas,” Enjolras relents, and Grantaire whistles lowly.

“Highland Park,” he says, dropping his chin into his palm. “Damn, Apollo, you really are lost down here. Now I have to know, so tell me straight, what got you out of your fancy park?”

He shouldn’t say anything. He should just throw a few bills on the table, tip his hat to the waitress, and walk out. But Enjolras leans forward, running his tongue over his lower lip and finding himself pleased that Grantaire’s eyes follow the motion. It’s ridiculous, but he wants to impress Grantaire. And, well, his story is actually fairly impressive. Or, at least for a small town man, impressive enough. “Had a bit of a run in with the law,” he says lowly.

Grantaire snorts. “What, you do a little tax evasion with your trust fund,” he asks.

“You’ve obviously heard of Highland Park, so you probably know a thing or two about West Dallas,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire’s lips twist in an unpleasant smile. “A thing or two,” he repeats.

“Thousands of people out there, living in the dirt and mud,” Enjolras says. “Only a few manage to scrape enough to get a roof over their heads. Most consider themselves lucky if they’ve got a tent to sleep under. There’s not work for them across the river. City council, all the fat cats in charge, people like my parents, they don’t want them there, don’t want them tarnishing Dallas’s image. We can’t be an intellectual and cultural mecca to rival Paris if we’re being overrun by all that poor country trash,” he spits out.

He’s getting a bit fired up, to the point that he almost doesn’t notice the way Grantaire’s entire demeanor changes. Since they met, Grantaire has had a spark of playful flippancy in his eyes, his entire being radiating a sense of not caring. But now he watches Enjolras with wide eyes and bated breath. He looks like he’s seeing for the first time. It fuels Enjolras.

“They came to Dallas looking for relief from the farmlands failing them. We should have welcomed them, embraced them, and helped them. But we only shunned them and locked them away in a veritable swamp across the river. It’s indecent, criminal,” Enjolras hisses.

“It’s the way of the world,” Grantaire says. His words are cynical, but his expression is still awe-filled.

“Not a world I’m content to suffer through,” Enjolras says, and he goes on to tell Grantaire in detail all the ways he’s robbed the country club crowd of Dallas, from embezzlement working in his father’s offices to outright burglary, and his later distribution of the funds into the West Dallas slums. He had been caught. Enjolras is smart, very smart, but he isn’t necessarily a criminal mastermind. And truth be told, he had wanted to be found out. He had wanted people to see the corruption of the society he had been raised in, that it was festering and filthy enough that even one of their own had to stand up and do something about it.

“And so that’s your plan now,” Grantaire asks when Enjolras has finished. “You’re just going to go from town to town, finding out all the corruption and knocking it down a peg or two?”

“Someone ought to do it,” Enjolras answers.

“And what’s your plan when people don’t listen,” Grantaire asks. “Because people with that power and that money, they’ve got it, and they aren’t keen to give it up.”

“I make them listen,” Enjolras says, patting at an inner pocket of his jacket. Grantaire blinks for a moment, and then his eyes widen.

“You ever do anyone in,” Grantaire asks, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Enjolras could lie. He could tell Grantaire that he has killed a man. Grantaire has already proven that he isn’t jumping to turn Enjolras over to authorities. If he were, he wouldd have done it when he saw Enjolras with his head in a car that didn’t belong to him. But again, Enjolras finds himself telling Grantaire the truth. “Not yet.”

“Not yet,” Grantaire repeats, his thick brows shooting up to disappear under the dark fringe that hangs over his forehead. “You planning on it?”

“If I have to,” Enjolras answers. Grantaire just chuckles. “What,” Enjolras asks, annoyed. “You think I wouldn’t?”

“I think you watched too many Westerns as a kid,” Grantaire retorts. Enjolras stares across the table at him, brows drawn down and an inexplicable need to prove Grantaire wrong boiling in his chest.

He stands, fumbling into his back pocket for his wallet. He throws a few more bills than are necessary down and grabs Grantaire’s wrist. “Come with me,” he demands.

“Wha—“ Grantaire half-heartedly protests as Enjolras drags him up and out of the diner.

When they get into the street, Enjolras hisses, “Pick a place.”

“Excuse me,” Grantaire cries. Enjolras shushes him.

“Pick a place,” he repeats. “There’s got to be a place. Every town has one.”

“Well, there’s the grocery over on Main,” Grantaire says. “Surprised old Davis still has any business left with how high he jacks up his prices. Most people have to take to the woods to feed themselves.”

“Show me.”

And Grantaire leads the way through town, inclining his head towards the building. It’s certainly not a grand structure, but it’s just about one of the better kept that Enjolras has seen in the area. “Wait here,” Enjolras instructs, but Grantaire shakes his head.

“Like hell,” he snorts. “I want to see this.” 

They walk casually inside, and the grocer looks up. His nose crinkles a little bit at the sight of Grantaire, and that leaves an unpleasant taste in Enjolras’s mouth, especially when the grocer turns a friendlier smile to him. It’s not difficult at all to brandish the gun and instruct the grocer to empty his register. “It would be in your best interests to not follow us outside,” Enjolras says, giving Grantaire the cash to pocket and waving the gun as a warning.

They walk outside as calmly as they had entered, if with a slightly faster gate. The grocer follows, yelling. Enjolras turns and fires off a shot, which sends the man scurrying back into the safety of his store. Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s hand and yells, “Follow me,” as he takes off down the street.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, a little breathy behind him.

They run up to a parked car, and Enjolras makes short work of hot-wiring it. They jump inside and speed out of town. No one follows. The town is probably too small to have much in the way of a police department, certainly not one that would be roused fast enough to be a concern.

Grantaire takes the wad of bills from his pocket, whistling at them. “I’ve never seen this much money in one place before. Shit, is that a twenty?”

“So, what’d you say,” Enjolras asks, passing up a slow driving produce truck. “You in?”

“In,” Grantaire echoes.

“With me,” Enjolras says. “Me and you are going to cut us a path clear across the state, hell, the country. We’re going to find every single fat cat banker, lawyer, businessman, and government stooge we can get our hands on, and we are going to bring them down a notch. Even the playing field, and give the people a chance to make it.”

“A regular old pair of Robin Hoods,” Grantaire says. “Or, you’re more the Robin Hood.”

“I need a band of Merry Men,” Enjolras says, glancing over.

“And you’re picking me,” Grantaire asks with a disbelieving tone.

“I’m picking you,” Enjolras affirms.

“Why?”

“Because you’re meant for more than what that town can give you,” Enjolras says. “If you stay there, it’s nothing but dust and dead grass. That’s not for you, not for a person who makes classical references in casual conversation. You’re too smart for that place. You need to get out.”

“You don’t know me,” Grantaire says. “You don’t know any of that.”

“I do. I see you,” Enjolras says. Grantaire doesn’t answer. He just stares out the window, occasionally looking down at the bills in his lap.

It’s a few hours before they come into another town. There is a small motel on the outskirts, and Enjolras pulls into the lot. He walks around the car and opens Grantaire’s door. He gathers up the money, pockets it, and pulls Grantaire after him. He signs them up for a room, impatient at the slowness with which the man goes to hand over the key. As soon as they are inside, Enjolras pushes Grantaire up against the wall and crowds into his space. “Well?”

“You really think all that,” Grantaire asks. “You barely know me an afternoon and you really think all that?”

“I’m a good judge of character,” Enjolras assures him.

“And you want me,” Grantaire asks.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, taking a step closer to press their bodies together.

Grantaire swallows thickly and then nods. “I’d follow you anywhere, Apollo,” he says.

“My name is Enjolras,” he says and brings his lips crashing down against Grantaire’s. 


	2. Chapter 2

They wake up the next morning far earlier than Grantaire would prefer, although he will admit freely that Enjolras running his hands down Grantaire’s bare back and pressing a kiss to his forehead isn’t the worst way to wake up. They dress and walk into town, lifting a different car and then heading north.

They haven’t finalized a plan yet. For now, Enjolras just wants to get north and get supplies. They stop in Fort Worth, because he won’t go to Dallas, and use a majority of their stolen money to get new suits—Grantaire is floored by the quality of the clothes; he has never had anything like this in his life—basic provisions, a few bottles of wine and whiskey, cigarettes, guns and ammunition, and an extra container of gas.

After that, there isn’t much money left, so they take to staying in abandoned farm houses in the country. There is no shortage of those around.

“Do you know how to shoot,” Enjolras asks one morning, polishing one of the .22 calibers.

Grantaire levels him with a withering glance. “I’m from Texas,” he says. It really ought to be explanation enough, but he goes on. “From a small family. In a rural town. I would expect that I shoot better than you, Mr. Country Club.”

Enjolras frowns and hands him a pistol to prove it. It’s a better quality gun than just about any Grantaire has handled before, which makes his aim seem more impressive. He’s used to the cheap shotguns that anybody can buy on any street corner for just a few dollars, the sorts of weapons that you have just to have. But these new purchases, they are from hardware stores and well made. After shooting dead center of the Os in the foreclosed sign, Grantaire turns a smug smile over his shoulder, bringing up the barrel of the gun and blowing. It’s not smoking, but it’s the idea that matters. Enjolras rolls his eyes, but there is a very faint upturn of his lips.

“It’ll do,” he admits, walking up and slipping a hand into Grantaire’s back pocket.

“Aw, were you hoping I didn’t know how to shoot so you could teach me, big, strong man,” Grantaire asks in a simpering tone. Enjolras squeezes, and he laughs.

“Be serious,” Enjolras scolds.

“You’re the one with your hand on my ass,” Grantaire retorts.

``

Their first trip out for a heist proves to be a series of failures. They head far north, up into Minnesota. They stake out a place, but the morning of snow is falling and there is ice on the roads. “Fuck no,” Grantaire says plainly, and Enjolras agrees. They aren’t used to conditions like these, and are likely to flip the car in the middle of their getaway.

In Iowa, they can’t seem to find any banks that aren’t seeing a fairly steady stream of activity or that don’t have a police car parked out front. This is their first heist. They’re not aiming for something big and showy. Not yet anyway.

So they head south again, stopping off in the northeastern corner of Kansas. The town is miniscule, but there is a decent enough looking bank. It’s a perfect location. There are paved roads that lead straight out of town in three directions. It’s not in the town’s center, so there are fewer people walking by, and the police station is clear on the other side of town.

After two days of stake outs, Grantaire parks the car just off from the bank’s front door, and Enjolras casually slips out the passenger door and walks inside. The only person inside is the teller. The place is small enough that they don’t even employ a security guard. The teller looks up with a pleased and friendly smile as Enjolras enters. “Hello, sir,” he greets. “How may I help you today?”

Enjolras returns the smile with one of his own and holds up his gun. The teller blinks, confused. “I’m sorry, sir,” he starts, “I don’t—“

“We should make this quick,” Enjolras says, placing a bag up on the counter. “Give me the money.”

“But, sir—“

“You seem like a nice enough man,” Enjolras says, waving the gun. “I know you don’t want this to escalade, and neither do I. The banking system of this country is fraudulent and tyrannical. It’s time for the wealth of the nation to be redistributed. So, if you please.”

“But, sir,” the teller insists. “There isn’t any money.”

Enjolras pauses. “Excuse me,” he asks after a moment, his tone low and dangerous.

“I’m so sorry,” the teller cries. “I wish there was. I really do. But there isn’t. Here.” He motions with his raised hands towards the vault, and Enjolras follows and watches as he opens it, revealing the empty room. For good measure, the teller shows Enjolras all the drawers too.

Enjolras runs a hand down his face, trying not to lose his temper. The lack of money, it’s not actually this man’s fault. The corruption of the banks isn’t this man’s fault either. He just works here. Yelling at him or threatening him won’t do any good, even if it would be satisfying.

Instead, he grabs the man’s arm and snarls, “Come on. You have to explain this to my partner.”

Enjolras drags the teller outside and pushes him over towards the car. Grantaire, leaning out the window, looks completely flabbergasted. “What in the hell are you—“

“Tell him,” Enjolras demands.

And the man does. Grantaire blinks at him for a moment. Then he looks over at Enjolras, who just stands there, stone-faced. Grantaire looks back at the teller, who just shrugs sort of helplessly. Then, Grantaire starts to laugh. He bends over the steering wheel, hitting his forehead to it. The teller jumps back, and Enjolras frowns. Grantaire just continues to laugh.

Finally, Enjolras pushes the teller out of his way, opening the door and shoving until Grantaire slides across to the passenger side. He continues to howl, arms cradling his sides and feet kicking a bit. Enjolras slams the door and drives off angrily, leaving the teller in a cloud of dust.

“Oh my God,” Grantaire cackles. “Holy fucking Christ.”

He’s wheezing as they head out of town, and Enjolras snarls, “Will you shut up?”

Grantaire just laughs harder.

``

Enjolras takes what happened in Kansas as a personal affront, to the point that when Grantaire still hasn’t stopped laughing about it when they stop for the night, Enjolras storms out to sleep in the car. Grantaire doesn’t spend too much time trying to coax him back inside. It’s like arguing with a brick wall. If he wants to sleep on an uncomfortable backseat, let him. Grantaire will take a bed any time.

Of course, the pouting does get tedious after a while. And it is pouting, not righteous fury and indignation that the plans for the liberation of the people are constantly being thwarted.

Grantaire finally gets fed up when they simultaneously run out of both money and wine. The argument is explosive. Grantaire threatens to leave, all the while feeling as if doing so, to be parted from Enjolras, might kill him. They have only known each other for a couple of weeks, but it had taken a mere afternoon for Grantaire to fall completely in love with him. Enjolras is sunshine, the only sunshine that Grantaire has ever felt properly on his skin. He is light and warmth in a hopeless existence. Grantaire needs him.

Enjolras yells back that he can leave if he wants, but that he’ll regret it. He’ll regret going back to that miserable, small town nothingness, because with Enjolras, Grantaire can make a name for himself. He can make people stop and listen and respect him. He can make a difference.

Grantaire doesn’t want to make a difference. He just wants Enjolras.

“You can be more than that,” Enjolras says. “More than me.”

“I don’t want more than you,” Grantaire answers. Enjolras just stops and looks at him for a long moment. Something softens in his expression, and he reaches out to pull Grantaire to him. His fingers bury into Grantaire’s thick curls, and Grantaire clings to the back of his shirt, and they kiss like they’ll die if they don’t.

``

The car is running on fumes when they pull into a gas station. It’s the only building they have seen for miles. As soon as the car comes to a stop, a young boy runs out of the building. His blond hair is tangled and in need of a trim, and his overalls are dusty and oil stained. “Morning,” he chirps, hurrying over to fill up the car. Coming out behind him at a more leisurely pace is a young woman. She wears men’s clothes and has her dark hair piled high on her head and held back with a bandana. She offers a wave of her own before popping open the hood of the car to get a look at it.

Grantaire and Enjolras both slip out of the car to stretch their legs. Grantaire wanders over to the back to chat with the boy, and Enjolras watches the woman hovering over the engine.

“You know what you’re doing,” he asks.

The woman stills for the briefest second before lifting her head to give him the driest expression he has ever seen. “Because my breasts interfere with my ability to understand the mechanics of motor vehicles,” she asks.

Behind the car, there is a snort of laughter, and Enjolras glances back to see both Grantaire and the boy snickering. He levels a look at Grantaire, one which Grantaire swears his face is going to get stuck in, before turning back to the girl. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I meant, are you any good?”

“I work at a mechanic shop, don’t I,” she asks.

“You could be a poor mechanic,” Enjolras retorts.

At this, the girl grins and sweeps her arm in a grand gesture towards the shop with its dusty windows, peeling paint, and rusted door hinges. “Aren’t we all?”

Enjolras smiles. “What’s your name?”

“Éponine Thénardier,” she answers. “That there is my little brother Gavroche.”

“You’re both pretty young to have your hands on a gas station and mechanic shop,” Grantaire comments.

“It’s our parents’,” Gavroche answers. “We just do the real work.”

“See much business,” Enjolras asks. Grantaire gives him a curious look. Places like this aren’t on the list. They don’t hold up just anybody. Enjolras shakes his head briefly, and Grantaire shrugs, letting Enjolras go on with whatever his plan is.

“You’re the first in almost a week,” Éponine admits, ducking down to check under the radiator. “We gave you our names. How about you folks?”

“Enjolras,” he answers, “and my partner, Grantaire. We rob banks.”

There is a thud and a curse, and Éponine pops back up. “Excuse me,” she asks. At his side, Gavroche looks up at Grantaire with an air of awe.

“We rob banks,” Enjolras repeats.

Éponine looks back and forth between them and arches her brow. “And that’s just something you announce to people on the streets? Because I’m going to have to be honest with you, that’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard.”

“I’ve got a business proposition for you, Miss Thénardier,” Enjolras says, using that tone of voice, the one that completely ensnared Grantaire. Éponine doesn’t look as awed or impressed, but she does stand up a little straighter. “We could use a mechanic, someone who understands how cars work and how to fix them. We could use someone as our getaway driver. If you want, you’ve got the job. But I’ll tell you straight up. We don’t do this to get rich. We’re doing this to even the playing field.”

Éponine crosses her arms. “You rob banks, but you don’t keep the money?”

“The money isn’t ours,” Enjolras says. “It’s the people’s. It should be given to the people.”

“So if I were to sign up, I would be expected to work for free,” she asks. “I don’t do charity.”

“Not for free,” Enjolras assures her. “You’d be given a cut, but the majority of the money does go back to the people.”

Éponine considers this for a moment. Then she grins. “Gavroche, go get some clothes and raid the register. We’re going to be outlaws.” Gavroche cheers and takes off running.

“Whoa, whoa,” Grantaire protests. “Hold on there. Who said anything about the kid?”

“If I go, so does Gavroche,” Éponine says firmly. “You’ve never met my family, but if you had, you’d know, I’m not leaving him here with those people.” She spits the words out, and they don’t need to ask to know that there’s bad blood between her and the rest of her family. “Besides,” she says, grinning again, “You’ll be glad to have him.”

And Gavroche is suddenly at her side, holding up two wallets. “The hell,” Grantaire cries, patting at his pockets. Enjolras just looks impressed.

“Then we have a deal,” he says, holding out a hand first for Éponine to shake and then Gavroche. They all pile into the car, and Gavroche hands back over both the wallets and the bills from the register for Grantaire to count.

``

Luck turns for them after adding on the Thénardiers. There are enough of them now that they are sort of a proper gang, and Enjolras takes great pleasure in informing them of their name, ABC. Grantaire rolls his eyes, points to the siblings, and tells Enjolras that no one is going to get that. Indeed Gavroche and Éponine are making confused faces at each other, and they too roll their eyes when Enjolras explains that it’s a pun in French.

“You’re just being contrary,” Enjolras whispers to Grantaire later as they’re getting ready for bed. “You love puns.”

“I do,” Grantaire answers, kissing him. “That doesn’t mean other people will magically get it.”

They pull their first job with the siblings a few days later. Gavroche more than proves his worth as their lookout and eyes on the street. No one questions the presence of a child running about the streets all day, not like they would two grown men loitering around. And Gavroche’s information is spot on and very detailed. Grantaire feels both affection for the boy and a sort of sadness that they are corrupting him into a life of crime when he really ought to be sitting bored out of his mind in a schoolroom or playing hooky to go fishing in a creek.

The job goes off without a hitch. Enjolras and Grantaire stroll into the bank at exactly 8:45 in the morning, fifteen minutes before the security guard is scheduled to arrive. They come out ten minutes later, bags full of cash, and Éponine and Gavroche waiting right outside the door with the car. They speed down the road before the alarms can sound andtrade cars one town over. By lunch they cross into Oklahoma as casual as you please (if they all ignore Grantaire’s grumblings about hellholes).

They have money again, and they are in a different state, but Enjolras still thinks it’s for the best that they hide out in old farmhouses. Every once in and while, they luck out and find that the family left behind their furniture. When there’s a bed, they all pile onto it, Gavroche tucked in between Éponine and Grantaire and Enjolras pulling Grantaire’s back to his chest, his arms wrapped around his waist and their legs tangled together.

They aren’t in any particular hurry, other than Enjolras’s usual brand of it. He wants to change the world, and he wants to change it now, but these things take time. His impatience with it all is never really helped by Grantaire’s cynicism or Éponine’s flippancy, but at least Gavroche is an enthusiastic audience.

``

They’re in Central Arkansas. It’s been two weeks since their last job. They keep a stock of the money necessary for continued supply runs and distributed the rest through slums across Oklahoma. Enjolras had been soaring on a high for two days after one woman had burst into tears and hugged him, proclaiming that his generosity would be just enough to help her meet the payment on her farm. She had lost her husband only a couple of weeks ago, and her sons were coming up from Chickasha to help her, but they would have just missed the bank’s cut off.

“This is why we do this,” Enjolras says, dragging Grantaire back into the bedroom.

“I really hope you aren’t always thinking about crying old ladies when we fuck,” Grantaire says, but secretly, he is pleased too. He is not convinced that what they do is going to make any changes, not on the scale that Enjolras wants to see. And the gap between the poor and the rich is never going to change. It’s been like this since time immemorial. But that doesn’t mean Grantaire likes to see the suffering. He is glad to see their contributions help these people, even if for just a little while.

They’re out on the front porch of the abandoned farmhouse of the week. Enjolras has given up trying to wrestle away the bottle of wine from Grantaire’s grasp and has turned his attention to the little book in which he keeps their records. Gavroche is playing cards with Grantaire, and Éponine is half buried under the car.

“We picked for shit on this one,” she says when she crawls out. “There’s no way I can repair this with the tools that we have.”

Enjolras frowns and considers his scribbles in the book. “We don’t have the funds to pay for parts legitimately.”

Gavroche pumps a fist in the air. “Going on a heist,” he cheers.

Éponine takes him into town later that afternoon, and they case a hardware store. “It’s got everything we need,” she says when they return, and they settle down to construct a play by play of the plan.

Getting into the store isn’t difficult, and they have most of what they need shoved into a bag when the bleary-eyed owner walks down the stairs. He’s in pajamas and a robe, his hair all askew. He flips on a light, obviously not expecting to see people in his shop by the way he yelps.

“Dammit,” Enjolras hisses. Gavroche is outside as a lookout, which does them jackshit good now. The owner turns on his heel and flees back up the stairs. “Let’s go,” Enjolras orders. The man will be on the phone to the cops in seconds.

From there, everything goes wrong. Apparently the hardware store has a state of the art security system, and they’re hardly out the door when alarms start blaring. “Shit,” Grantaire snaps. “That’ll wake up the whole fucking town.”

“This way,” Éponine calls, and they all take off running after where Gavroche is already down the street. By the time they hit the edge of town, there are cops on their tails. And the cops have guns.

“Motherf—“ Enjolras hisses, but he doesn’t shoot back. If he shoots then they’ll know he has a gun, and robbery isn’t as bad as armed robbery, and running from the cops isn’t as bad as shooting at them. “We need to split up,” he says, gasping as his lungs protest. “Get lost in the woods. They’ll never find you two.”

Éponine nods, her expression grave. She grabs Gavroche’s hand, and they veer off to disappear into the woods. It’s only a moment later that Enjolras and Grantaire too jump over the fence that separates the farmland from the woods. As soon as they cross the tree line, the shots from the pursuing law enforcement increase.

“Dammit,” Grantaire curses. “What, they think shooting fucking willy nilly’s going to increase chances of hitting us?”

“Well, statistically speaking,” Enjolras starts.

“Oh, shut up,” Grantaire snaps. 

They run until their lungs and legs are screaming with the efforts, and then they keep going. Enjolras keeps glancing over his shoulder. He can see the pursuing cops just out of sight, weaving behind them through the trees. He pulls Grantaire after him in a hard left turn and thinks that he really should have followed the store owner up the stairs and tied him and any family up. Then they wouldn’t have had to split up from the Thénardiers and be running for their lives in some godless, backwater woods.

They come up to a creek bed, and Enjolras has already started down when a shot rings out, and Grantaire goes tumbling past him. Enjolras’s blood runs cold. He slides down the bank to where Grantaire is in the mud, gasping and clutching his left thigh. There is plenty of light from the moon to see the red pouring over his fingers.

“Shit, shit,” he hisses. “Can you get up?”

Grantaire tries, but his leg collapses under him. The noise from the approaching law enforcement is getting louder. If Grantaire can’t move, they’re going to get caught. “You have to get up,” Enjolras urges, pulling Grantaire’s arm over his shoulders and holding up some of his weight.

He tries, but he stumbles in the mud, and even carrying him, they would move too slowly. They’re going to get caught. And they can’t get caught.

Enjolras slips out from under Grantaire, easing him back to the ground. “What are you—“

“I’ll come back for you,” Enjolras says.

“Excuse you,” Grantaire cries.

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s face in his hands and kisses him. “I’ll come back for you. Tell them we kidnapped you, forced you to come along with us or we’d kill you. They might not charge you then.” He kisses Grantaire again, but Grantaire just gapes at him. “I swear, I’ll come back,” he promises and starts to back away.

“Enjolras, no,” Grantaire protests, grabbing at his sleeve. Enjolras feels like he can’t breathe seeing the look on Grantaire’s face, and it’s just about the hardest thing he has ever done to wrench his hand away and swim across the creek. He disappears into the brush on the opposite side of the bank just as the cops arrive. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, been a while since this got updated. Oops. So sorry to anyone who was waiting for this next bit. I'll try to do better next time.

“You did what,” Éponine screeches.

They fall back to the farmhouse as per one of the discussed contingency plans. The siblings have already loaded up all their supplies and were ready to head out as soon as Enjolras and Grantaire showed up. But Enjolras doesn’t have Grantaire. He left him behind, shot and bleeding in a muddy creek.

“I did what I had to,” Enjolras snaps, trying not to pull at his hair. He’s angry and frustrated, with the store owner, with the cops, and mostly with himself. But he had to do it. He had to leave Grantaire behind. He will be far better suited to organizing a breakout from outside a jail cell than in one.

“Oh, you had to,” Éponine snarls. “You had to leave the man you’re in love with dying in a ditch. Of course.”

“We’re getting him out,” Enjolras yells back. “I just need to think.”

The next morning they send Gavroche into town to check where the cops are holding Grantaire. He comes back with reports that he is in the county jail, not the hospital like Enjolras had hoped. He tries not to panic over that. Grantaire had been shot. Were they just letting him rot in the cell? If that’s the case, if they haven’t given him treatment, he is going to burn the place to the ground.

The only chance they have for communication with Grantaire is to dress Éponine up in proper women’s clothes. She grumbles as she tries to make sense of her hair being down and complains that she’s just going to trip over all the extra fabric around her ankles. But she gets into the jail, claiming to be Grantaire’s cousin and adding credit to his claims of kidnapping. But the police won’t release him, not without proper evidence.

“They didn’t do much for his leg,” Éponine says gravely. “We need to get him out.”

“We can’t do it just the three of us,” Enjolras says. “Not with our limited supply. You two stay here. Keep visiting him. Keep giving credit to the story. I’ll be back tomorrow, two days at the longest.”

“You’re leaving again,” Éponine asks dangerously.

“I’ll be back,” he swears. “I just need to make a run into Dallas.”

``

“Not that we aren’t pleased to see you,” Combeferre says with an amused smile. Enjolras had barely made it in the door before Courfeyrac had flung himself at their friend, all but climbing him in an effort to embrace him. “But I never thought you’d step foot in Dallas again.”

“I’m in trouble,” Enjolras says, and Courfeyrac finally descends.

“What is it this time,” he asks, dragging Enjolras over to the couch. “You didn’t try to defraud a judge or something, did you? Because I don’t think I can get you off on that.”

And Enjolras then explains to his two oldest friends what all he has been up to since leaving Dallas. Courfeyrac makes all the appropriate expressions and gasps, and Combeferre just sits and considers everything. “So I need to bust him out,” Enjolras finishes up. “I’d like your help, but I understand if you can’t give it. It’s a lot to ask.”

Courfeyrac looks over to Combeferre, who is still sitting silently, his hands folded and resting against the lower half of his face. He watches Enjolras just over the lenses of his glasses, and Enjolras stares back. Combeferre is his oldest friend. They have known each other since before they can remember. There is no one on this earth who knows him as well as Combeferre does. There is no one that Enjolras trusts more.

Finally, after several moments of silent deliberation, Combeferre says, “You’re asking, so I’m in.”

Next to him, Courfeyrac grins and says, “Me too.”

Enjolras blinks, surprised. He had thought it would take more than that. He had thought he would have to beg and plead with them. He almost opens his mouth to ask if they’re sure, but the way his friends are looking at him, he knows that they are. “Thank you,” he says, some of the weight lifting off his shoulders. He has Combeferre and Courfeyrac with him now. They’ll get Grantaire out.

``

They arrive back in Arkansas within the promised time constraints, and Éponine looks ready to rage until she sees the stash of guns and bulletproof vests in the backseat. “Holy shit,” Gavroche whistles.

“That ain’t for you, boy,” Éponine says, dragging him back by his shirt collar. “Who are they?”

Enjolras is brief with the introductions. There will be plenty of time for them to get to know each other after they’ve busted Grantaire out. Gavroche and Éponine draw up a basic blueprint of the jail and a map of the surrounding buildings and streets. The five of them pour over it for hours, going through every detail imaginable. Here, Combeferre is invaluable, and Éponine is looking less and less guarded when he speaks. She almost seems impressed by the time they load up into Courfeyrac’s car.

They do one more sweep of the jail’s perimeter before Courfeyrac walks inside with a briefcase, a pistol tucked inside. He claims to be Grantaire’s lawyer, hired by his family. The legal jargon he spills for a few moments is completely legitimate. Really, they probably could have gotten Grantaire out through legal channels. As of yet, none of the gang has had their names linked to any of their holdups. But Enjolras isn’t willing to wait that long. Nor is he willing to run the risk that the jury is feeling vindictive and doesn’t believe their story. He wants Grantaire out of that cell.

Enjolras and Combeferre move in at the sound of Courfeyrac’s whistle. He has the policeman manning the jail at gunpoint. “Sorry about all this,” he says as Enjolras passes him to snatch the keys from the man’s belt. Combeferre follows him down the hall to the cells, standing guard while Enjolras hurries to unlock the door of where they are keeping Grantaire.

Sitting on a bench and leaning against the wall, Grantaire looks awful. His hair is matted and still covered in mud. His jaw is dark with a few days’ worth of stubble, and there are dark circles under his eyes. His leg, propped up on the bench, is poorly wrapped, and the bandages are stained with dried blood.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says in a shrill whisper. Grantaire’s eyes fly open, and he looks shocked to see Enjolras. Too shocked. Enjolras doesn’t like that expression. “Come on,” he says, pulling Grantaire’s arm up and over his shoulder. “We need to get going.”

Combeferre comes up on Grantaire’s other side, and they help him to limp from the cell. Out in the lobby, Courfeyrac is still holding the policeman at gunpoint, still smiling that same, slightly apologetic smile. “Well,” he says brightly at the sight of them, “this has been very productive. Thank you for your time, officer. I’m glad we were able to come to an arrangement.”

“Will you shut up,” Enjolras says, trying to snap, but he’s got Grantaire, and they’re getting out. Besides, it’s Courfeyrac. He can’t really be too irritated with him. Even between them, Grantaire is moving too slow, so Enjolras and Combeferre get him into the car before whistling for Courfeyrac, who comes flying out of the station seconds before an alarm. He jumps in the front with Gavroche and Éponine, who hits the gas, and they go roaring out of town. With Éponine at the wheel, they lose their pursuers quickly enough.

In the back, Enjolras instructs Combeferre to take a look at Grantaire’s leg. Combeferre isn’t a doctor, but he did go most of the way through medical school before changing career paths to become a teacher. He might not be legally qualified, but he is certainly competent enough to deliver first aid.

“You’re going to need a doctor,” Combeferre says, reapplying a new bandage.

Grantaire just nods tightly, and Enjolras asks, “Do you know anyone? Someone we can trust?”

Combeferre nods. “I think so,” he says. “A friend of mine. He was in several of my classes. We still keep in touch. He’s down in New Orleans.”

“Éponine,” Enjolras starts.

“The Crescent City,” Éponine says from the front. “You got it, boss.”

“You’ll be fine,” Enjolras says quietly to Grantaire, slipping an arm around him. Grantaire is tense, and it almost feels like he flinches away. “I’m sorry,” Enjolras says. “I’m sorry, but I came back.”

Grantaire looks at him but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything for the next few hours until he leans forward and tells Éponine to find a place to pull over for a while. Éponine glances back at Enjolras. He doesn’t want to stop. The sooner they get Grantaire to New Orleans the better. But Grantaire looks a shade murderous, and his hands are clenched in a white knuckled grip in his lap.

“We could use a break,” Enjolras says. Really, they probably should. They have all been up for over a day at this point. They could use a brief nap and some time to stretch out. Food would also be a good idea.

Éponine finds their usual brand of abandoned farmhouse and pulls the car around to the back. It’s barely stopped before Grantaire is pushing Combeferre and stumbling his way out of the car. “Careful,” Combeferre says gently, steadying him. “You’ll reopen the wounds, and you’ve already lost enough blood over the last few days.”

Pained, Grantaire accepts his offered assistance in getting inside, but when Enjolras tries to come up to help, he turns and punches Enjolras as hard as he can in the jaw. It’s not as bad as Enjolras knows it would be if he were in top shape, but it still sends him falling back to the ground.

“You son of a bitch,” Grantaire hollers, trying to jump at Enjolras again, but Combeferre and Éponine hold him back.

“Stop it,” Éponine snaps, grabbing at Grantaire’s arm. “Calm down.”

“He left me,” Grantaire yells again.

“I know he did,” Éponine says. “I know, and I’m pissed as hell too. But you need to calm down, or you’re going to be in worse shape.”  

They get him inside where there is a room that still has an old bed in it. Enjolras plows in right after them, and Grantaire growls, “Get out.”

“No, we need to talk about this,” Enjolras argues.

“Can’t it wait,” Éponine asks.

“No,” Enjolras says, motioning with his head for her and Combeferre to leave.

She just stands there, arms crossed defiantly until Combeferre heaves an almost inaudible sigh and places a hand on her shoulder. “It might be best for them to just get this over with,” he suggests. She turns, ready to protest, but Combeferre has on that expression that’s calm and serene but still leaves no room for argument. She nods and reluctantly follows him out.

The door has barely clicked behind them when Grantaire says, “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Well, I do,” Enjolras says. “I didn’t like doing that.”

“Because it was a completely delightful experience for me,” Grantaire snaps.

“If we had both been caught, we would be doing time,” Enjolras says. “It’s much harder to orchestrate a breakout from the inside, and God only knows if we would have even been in the same facility.”

“Well, I’m glad you can justify it,” Grantaire says.

“I don’t like having to justify it,” Enjolras says, struggling to not yell. “Do you think that’s easy? Having to justify leaving someone shot and bleeding in a ditch?”

Grantaire swallows thickly. “I don’t know,” he says. “I can’t imagine doing it.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. He takes a few steps closer, and Grantaire winces. It cuts Enjolras deeply, and he wants to stop, to stay back and give Grantaire space, because what if he pushes too much and Grantaire tells him to leave? But he also needs to touch Grantaire, to feel that he’s there and to assure Grantaire that he is too. So he sits beside him, careful to mind his injury, and takes Grantaire’s face in his hands.

“That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” he says. “I’ve been going crazy the past few days. I went to Dallas to get Combeferre and Courfeyrac.” At that, Grantaire’s brows shoot up. Enjolras has made it very clear that Dallas is not a place he ever intended to step foot inside again. “I’m sorry I left you. I am so sorry. It broke my heart, and I can’t even imagine what it did to you, and I know you’re mad. And you even have the right to hate me, and that’s okay. You can hate me if you want to.”

“I can’t,” Grantaire says, his voice wavering. “Yeah, I’m mad, but I can’t hate you.”

Enjolras nods. “I’ll do whatever I have to, Grantaire. Whatever I have to do to make this up to you.”

“Don’t leave me again,” Grantaire asks, and he sounds almost childlike, his eyes too wide and too blue. Enjolras leans forward and kisses him. Grantaire melts into the embrace, his shaking hands clenching at Enjolras’s shirt.

“No,” Enjolras says against his lips. “No, never. I’ll never leave you behind again. I swear it. If you’re hurt, I’ll carry you on my back, but I’ll never leave you behind again. If we go down, we go down together.”

Grantaire looks shocked. He blinks at Enjolras for a few seconds before blurting out, “I love you.” His hand clamps down over his mouth, and Enjolras smiles, reaching up to pull it away. He rubs a thumb over Grantaire’s knuckles and presses his lips there gently.

“I love you too,” he says. Grantaire heaves a relieved sigh and offers Enjolras a shaky, crooked smile. Enjolras kisses him again and then instructs, “You should lie down for a while.”

“You’ll stay,” Grantaire asks, keeping a tight hold of his hand as Enjolras helps him recline against the old mattress.

“I had hoped to,” Enjolras responds. He lies down beside Grantaire, and it’s a bit more effort than usual to tangle their limbs together, but eventually they get into a comfortable position with Grantaire’s head resting against Enjolras’s shoulder and Enjolras’s fingers gently working to detangle the mess of Grantaire’s hair.

Grantaire manages to get some sleep, but Enjolras, while exhausted, is still buzzing with everything that has happened over the past few days. He can’t sleep, and he has no desire to be away from Grantaire right now, so he just lies there, watching him sleep and holding onto him until Combeferre sticks his head into the room and whispers, “We should get back on the road.”

“Load up the car,” Enjolras says lowly. “And change the plates. We’ll be out in a moment.”

“Do we have to,” Grantaire grumbles, his voice thick with sleep. “It’s too early.”

“You haven’t even opened your eyes to see how light it is out,” Enjolras says fondly.

“I reject the concept of light,” he responds. He tries to snuggle closer to Enjolras and hisses. “Forgot about it,” he says tightly when Enjolras asks if he’s all right. “And you’re a liar. It’s still dark out.”

“Best time to travel,” Enjolras says, kissing his forehead. “Come on. You can sleep again in the car.”

``

They spend a little over a month in New Orleans with Combeferre’s medical school friend Joly and his two lovers, Bossuet and Musichetta, and when they do finally pack up the car, their gang finds itself three more members strong. Enjolras is very pleased to have Joly with them. So far Grantaire has been the only one of them to be injured, but in their line of work, it’s only a matter of time before it happens again. Better to have a doctor with them than hours and states away.

For their parts, the three are enthusiastic about Enjolras’s plans. Joly only charges his patients just enough to keep his practice going, and even that is half abhorrent to him. Musichetta is a phenomenal cook, but the bakery she owns is struggling more often than not. Bossuet, like Enjolras and his Dallas friends, was born into wealth, but his family had lost everything when the stock market crashed, and with his terrible luck, Bossuet has found himself unable to hold down a job for little more than a few weeks at a time. They are the sorts of people, kind, generous, and giving, who deserve to benefit from Enjolras’s work.

They pick up two more a couple of weeks later. They’ve been back on the road and are parked out in East Texas. Enjolras is reluctant to pull any bigger jobs until Grantaire is fully recovered. So while Enjolras and the others pour over accounts and plans and books, Grantaire walks into town with Joly and Musichetta. Joly is working him through his rehabilitation and figures a long but slow walk will be beneficial. When they get into town, Grantaire leaves them at a bar, letting them go off to collect groceries and a few other supplies.

Enjolras is less than pleased two hours later when Grantaire limps into their motel room supported on either side by two strangers. The larger of the two, who had given his name as Bahorel, grins around the blood pouring from his broken nose. Combeferre gives them a look but doesn’t sigh, and he goes to make them both small ice packs. The other of the men, Jean Prouvaire, is unharmed, although he had lamented on the walk over that he lost one of his flowers he had picked for his hair. He holds the ice pack to Grantaire’s eye, which is sure to be a spectacular shiner when the swelling goes down, and pleasantly informs Enjolras of the bar fight in which they had all been involved.

Enjolras wears that slightly constipated look the entire time Prouvaire speaks. It’s the one that says he’s torn between exasperation that Grantaire was drinking, fury that he got into a fight and risked their exposure or his own arrest again, and concern that he’s roughed up and possibly postponed his leg’s recovery more.

“Grantaire mentioned something about you rob banks,” Prouvaire says after everything has been explained, and Enjolras turns red as he rounds on Grantaire.

“Hey,” Grantaire says before he can start yelling. “If you get to recruit people willy nilly at gas stations, I can do it in bars.”

Gavroche snorts, and Éponine says gleefully, “He’s got you there.”

“Besides,” Grantaire says, “they’re good for it. I mean, just look at Bahorel.” Indeed, the man is well over six feet tall and looks to be made entirely of muscle. “And Prouvaire here took out more guys than either of us.”

“Only one or two,” Prouvaire says blushing.

It takes a bit of convincing, but Enjolras eventually concedes. And Grantaire comments that he especially has no ground to stand on denying anyone else bringing in a new member when not even a week later Enjolras strolls into their hideout on the outskirts of Lufkin with a man named Feuilly on his heels, who, Enjolras proclaims, with his past living as an orphan on the streets and his current struggles to make just over a dollar a day between two jobs, is all but the spirit of their enterprise.

(For his part, Feuilly looks half pleased to hear Enjolras’s praise and half irritated to be reminded of his poor circumstances.)


End file.
